After the Fall
by elsarenard
Summary: It isn't until after Sherlock is gone that John begins to realize how he truly felt. As John begins to reconcile his feelings he realizes that he's lost the only man he ever loved. But how will Sherlock's return affect him? Can he find the courage to admit the truth to himself, to Mary, and to the love of his life?


A/N: Set between seasons 2 and 3. My imaginings of what John's inner voice sounds like in pondering his friend's death. It does contain a few sections of dialogue stolen from "Many Happy Returns" and "The Empty Hearse" which does not belong to me and is from BBC. Much thanks to those fantastic creators.  
Author warnings: Mild violence in the description of Sherlock's death. Erotic dreams. Kissing. Allusions to sex. Homosexuality (obviously). Don't like don't read. Please read and review!

I always reckoned someone like me would be used to death by now.

After time in war, and time solving murders, a dead body should be so commonplace. But this—this was different.

This was _his _body splashed out on the pavement, blood pooling beneath dark tendrils of hair, that tall lean form stiff as it lay at an awkward angle. And the memories of what had just happened kept flashing through my mind nonstop as I approached him.

Sherlock on the edge of the roof, that dark silly coat of his flapping in the wind, his collar pulled up in that way he always did in attempts to look mysterious and brooding and…well… Sherlock. Sherlock telling me goodbye. Sherlock stepping closer and then falling, like something out of a nightmare flailing in the air while I stood at a distance hardly able to move, heart pounding, breath failing me as I watched my flatmate, my partner, my _friend_ jump to his death.

There were so many moments it didn't seem real. Even reaching for his still form, pulling a slim pale wrist out so I could search for a pulse. I kept expecting to find one, kept thinking there was no possible way it could really be happening. I had to be imagining things. I had to be dreaming. If I could just force my eyes open I'd be back in my bed in Baker Street.

I watched him loaded on to a gurney. I saw them wheel him away. My world seemed to be crumbling around me in an instant. If Moriarty meant to destroy Sherlock, he'd succeeded. But in the process he'd unintentionally destroyed me as well.

I was a wreck by the time I returned to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson started crying the instant I walked through the door, and while I did my best to comfort her, it's impossible to offer true human compassion in the midst of total grief. The heart is a very selfish little creature sometimes. And in that instant it had barricaded itself up away from the world. Only after I'd seen her back to her kitchen with a cup of tea did I have my moment to myself. I wandered back upstairs, through the living room, past bullet holes and body parts and books and that lonely violin perched on the table. Only when I was safely tucked in my own room, did I allow myself to truly break down.

Sure, every bloke has a good cry every now and then. Those who say otherwise are lying. But this was different than the occasional little emotional moment. It wasn't a few tears or a little sniffling, but wrenching sobs that shook every bit of me to the core. It was realizing that the person I'd come to care for in spite of all his aggravating qualities was gone for good, and there was no getting him back. I ended up falling asleep on the floor, no energy left to even drag myself to bed.

And you'd think after the actual death it would just gradually get easier. But no, the death is only the beginning of the pain. Then there's the funeral. And crying all over again, seeing a coffin lowered into the ground and knowing that this really is the end. There's being around the little reminders each and every day: his chair, his smiley face painted on the wall, his room, his comb in the bathroom, his random rubbish left lying about as though any moment he might just pop up to claim his rightful spot again.

I couldn't bear Baker Street after just a few days. It became too much. I apologized to Mrs. Hudson and moved out, rented a flat on the other side of the city where I could ride the tube to work and gradually start forgetting. Other than the bloody therapist everybody started recommending I go see.

To a certain extent, there was a benefit in being able to talk about everything that happened, but at the same time it dragged up those painful memories a second time. I tried so hard to just bury it all. But I suppose it's not entirely possible to throw pain and anger and confusion into the coffin alongside the body and hope all of those will just rot away underground if you let them.

A short while after everything had settled some, I realized I still wasn't quite getting over things. Sure, I'd moved out and was finding my way in the world again. But things still felt off. Odd. Confusing. I'd lost friends in war and it had never felt quite like this. So what was it about Sherlock that could put me in such a rut?

In many ways, he'd been one of the most insufferable prats I'd ever met. He was a right git with his inconsiderate ways and his big ego and his bloody mood swings. But I never had met someone who had made me feel so alive, so eager to face life, so…purposeful. He made me chuckle, or more often roll my eyes. I thought of those fantastic cases, and just the little daily moments I'd come to miss as well. Having someone there to talk to (or talk at depending), or bring a cup of tea to (never reciprocated mind you), or just have the comfortable presence of a second person there in the room. And I had to admit I'd grown accustomed to him in his own peculiar kind of way.

But surely there had to be something more.

I visited his grave on the recommendation of my therapist. An attempt to reconcile some of the grief, make up for my lack of real goodbyes. So I did, and I stammered to the harsh black stone about how I didn't want him to be gone. Cor, I was near tears by the end again. But I held back, voice choked as I managed to find my words.

"One more miracle, Sherlock. For me. Don't be dead."

At home I watched the telly for a while and then retired to bed. But it was in my dreams that the strangeness began.

That night I didn't have the typical nightmares. Instead I was standing at the same grave I'd visited earlier in the day. Confused, I stood looking at the stone for a few minutes, wondering why I was still there. Hadn't I already said everything I needed to? But a voice interrupted my thinking.

"Hello John."

I spun to see his form amongst the trees, hidden a bit in the shadows, but there nonetheless. Sherlock. I could barely breathe.

He sauntered closer watching me with those calculating blue eyes, observing every detail. What comments would he have for me? I wasn't sure if I should be angry if those did come or relieved. Had I truly missed those obnoxious remarks?

"You—You're—alive."

"As always, a brilliant level of observation, John. How ever do you manage?" Sherlock said, lips twitching in a playful smile.

"Oh stuff it you," I muttered. "You're—Sherlock, is this my miracle?"

"Perhaps," he said. His eyebrows quirked as he stepped closer, still staring at me intensely. In many ways it felt like I'd forgotten some of these minute details about him, but they were coming back in an instant. Every bit of him seemed so real and lifelike.

"You bloody wanker," I muttered. "You faked it and you didn't tell me."

He made a soft shushing noise, suddenly at my side. My breathing rate was rising rapidly, my fists curling wondering if I should deck him or hug him. I couldn't quite decide.

Before I could, however, his hand was coming up to rest lightly on my cheek, long elegant fingers brushing against my chin. His eyes focused on mine, and I felt my stomach do a roll.

"I've missed you," he whispered. He leaned closer and my breath caught as his angular nose suddenly bumped against mine.

What the bloody hell was he doing? But if I truly was uncomfortable I didn't voice it. He was so close, his breath against my cheek. I didn't dare move as he cupped my face and leaned in and—

I woke up in a cold sweat, jerking out of sleep the same way I usually did nightmares. What the—

I couldn't begin to process what had actually happened in that sodding dream. I knew I missed him but that—no, that was utter nonsense. Something odd I'd seen on the telly transferred into the realm of unconscious and bubbling up in my dreams. Nothing more. I glanced at the clock. 4:30. Well, a cup of tea for me then, and I'd start my morning early.

I couldn't shake it though. And future nights continued to have those er—well—queer visitations. And no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, apparently there was something about Sherlock I couldn't keep away even with him dead.

My other dreams were worse, driving me barmy with each additional one. For example, me sitting in Baker Street, in my usual chair. Him strolling in wearing only that sheet from the case with _the woman_. I found my gaze drawn to him, observing creamy skin beneath nearly translucent fabric. I became more aware for the first time of his angular body shape, the smooth sleek curve of muscle.

Again, I managed to wake myself before anything…could happen.

However, it brought about some serious thinking like nothing before. Truth was, I'd never been drawn to a bloke before. Not like that anyways. I mean—I wasn't precisely inexperienced. I'd had a few fumbling experiments as a curious teenager, all that. I'm not some blinkered idiot who thinks love has to look one way. But I had been quite serious all those times I'd denied things. All those moments I said I wasn't Sherlock's date, I wasn't gay, I wasn't his boyfriend.

But in many ways there were elements of our relationship that were beginning to make sense under a certain new context. No, I didn't think I was going to start thinking of other men now. I really didn't think I was a proper bender. However, my relationship with Sherlock fell into a neat context under the idea of romance—though it was terrifying to think of it that way. But after all we'd been through, our companionship together, how I couldn't keep a girl for more than a month or two at most. I thought back to the one girl's comments on how Sherlock was lucky to have such a devoted boyfriend. It was true; I'd been more devoted to him than to any of my supposed romantic partners.

And while he'd driven me up the wall, there were qualities about him I couldn't help but find admirable. Bloody hell it sounds stupid, but it's true.

The worst was the final one, the confrontation of feelings I needed in my life but that found me in sleep instead.

I was working on my laptop, deeply involved in typing out my thoughts about the latest case. I hardly noticed as he sauntered in, glancing over my shoulder before going to sit in his own chair. He stared at me for a long moment, eyes fixed. Feeling his gaze, I looked up. Those eyes, riveted to me, taking in every detail. While normally I might have rolled my eyes and told him to stop trying to make deductions about me for the day, this time all that happened was a bit of heat rising to my cheeks. It was the excuse he needed.

Sherlock was to his feet in a heartbeat, strolling over, gaze never leaving.

"What's the matter, John? Are you ill?"

I shook my head. "N—No. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "You look quite flushed…and you're breathing rather erratically as well."

He leaned in closer, staring. I wanted to shift away from his gaze, but there was nowhere to go. I was stuck in my chair while he studied me.

"So that's it," he murmured after a moment. "That's it. You do fancy me me, John. With all those denials I really had given up hope."

"Hope? What are you on about?" I managed to bite out. "Sherlock, there's nothing to deny…I don't fancy—"

"Your face is flushed, your pupils dilated, your breathing erratic. If I took your pulse I guarantee that would be higher too. I did this with the woman, John. Do you really not believe it will work on you too?" He gives this little half smile I've grown so fond of, and it proves his point, my heart leaping in my chest, stomach twisting almost painfully.

"And what about this?" Sherlock is leaning over me, close, so close, foreheads almost touching. However, it's the target of his hand that's my real worry. I draw in a sharp gasp as he finds new evidence for what he wants to prove, smirking at what he finds there.

"Hmm—still going to deny you're interested, John? I know you are. How could you not be?"

"Just—just kiss me," I manage to stammer out.

Sherlock makes a soft humming noise, but he complies, moving in and brushing his lips to mine, gently at first, then with more passion.

The dream dissolved into sensuality after that, and I woke with the evidence of that quite clearly displayed across my sheets. Having wet dreams like a pubescent boy, oh jolly good. Things I hadn't missed getting older.

However, the dreams were a conclusion to my questioning. I was apparently attracted to Sherlock. It had taken his death to prove it, but nonetheless, I had fallen for him. All those denials had been for nothing. I'd missed my chance, and now I would live with the regrets of that.

I didn't magically turn queer if that's the question you're wondering. Look, I still very much like women. I don't particularly find much about male anatomy all that appealing on its own. But Sherlock had given me something different.

The small bits I admitted to my therapist had been helpful. We'd gone over grieving and moving on. Regrets were apparently just part of the process, and I'd have to deal with them to some level anyways, but especially now all things considered.

I mean—really if not for Sherlock I'd never have met Mary. Funny how that works out now, isn't it?

It was his birthday. Sherlock's I mean. While he was alive he'd never allowed me to make a fuss. In fact, I'd only weaseled out the actual day thanks to some solid manipulation. Otherwise known as bothering him a few times before giving up and asking Mycroft casually during one of our quick chats.

Regardless, even if he hadn't wanted to celebrate, the actual day was still an awful reminder. Part of me was tempted to remain in the flat and wallow in my grief. But I decided drowning my sorrow in drink might be a slightly more effective option. So, heading down to a local pub, I set about trying to get pissed.

Thankfully, I'd only downed a couple before I saw her. This gorgeous brunette. I'd noticed it was a problem sometimes. When I was thinking of him…I would just try to find the girl who looked the most like him. Tall and lean, not too curvy. However, usually the fantasy would die out around the moment she opened her mouth. I'd even made a move on a guy once with a slight similarity, though that turned too weird for my liking far too fast.

However, just my luck, I was stopped from making a terrible mistake when I knocked into someone in my path to go flirt. I spilled my drink over her, wetting the entire front of her red dress.

"I'm so sorry!" I stammered. "Um—can I help?"

She swore loudly and shook her head, staring down at the mess before glancing up with her beautiful intelligent eyes.

Mary certainly wasn't traditionally beautiful. She was nothing like other women I'd gone for before. But that didn't mean I couldn't appreciate aspects of her. I think in many ways, there was something about her, about the way she spoke, the way she carried herself. I was embarrassed of course, but intrigued as well. I stayed with her to make sure there was nothing else that could be done. But of course, at that point it was more about just talking with her a bit as she tried to dry up the fabric.

Well, long story short, I ended up with her number, and soon we were seeing each other on a semi-regular basis. It was such a nice change of pace. Growing closer and closer to Mary. Moving in together. There was someone in my life to care for and love and talk to and be myself with. For once, I was beginning to feel better. In fact, I found Mary better to talk to about my Sherlock feelings more than the therapist—though I obviously left the more…embarrassing details out.

* * *

She was a very lovely woman, Mary. And I was so glad to have her with me. For a while, I started to forget about my dear Sherlock. And then Lestrade popped by one day for absolutely no reason…with a box of Sherlock's possessions, most importantly a DVD with a note he'd left for my birthday.

I poured myself a drink in light of all that had happened. But I couldn't stop thinking about it. I had to see his face again. Hear his voice. It'd been so long I'd started forgetting those details. And so, drink in hand I put it in and started watching him, seeing his unsmiling face as he monologued through a minimal birthday speech for me, sounded like his usual arrogant obnoxious self.

"Of course I'm going to miss the dinner, there'll be _people_," he sneered. "How can John be having a birthday dinner, all his friends hate him. You only have to look at their faces."

I couldn't decide whether to laugh or to cry. Every emotion on the human spectrum seemed to be flashing through me at once. Little bits and pieces set me off. His brazen apathy, his uncaring tone. And yet his stern face, those familiar eyes that I'd only seen in dreams as of late. A smile half twitched on my lips, only to be stifled as he continued on.

"I wrote an essay on hatred in close proximity based entirely on his friends," Sherlock muttered. "Though…on reflection it probably wasn't a very good choice of gift…" He sighed and turned to peer at the camera. "What was my excuse again?"

I tried not to sigh. I'd expect that of course. His answer had seemed unlikely even at the time. Still, hearing the truth made it a bit harder.

"You said you had a thing," Lestrade sneered from behind the camera.

"Oh right," he flapped his arms in a way that made me smile again. "Oh yes, right a thing."

"You might want to elaborate," Lestrade suggested.

"No no, no, no good lies only have half detail," Sherlock said.

I shook my head and closed my eyes. For the love of god. Even in a minute long video Sherlock still maintained every bit of his normal character. I opened my eyes again to stare at his face. My mouth twitched and I almost spoke. I wanted to say something witty. I wanted to tell him to stop being such an obnoxious arrogant—

"Right, just give me a moment to figure out what I'm going to do."

"I can tell you what to do," I muttered, lifting my drink to my lips, turning my gaze away from him as his back is turned and the sight of it is stirring interesting emotions. "You can stop being dead—"

My gaze jumped back as Sherlock suddenly responded, "Ok."

What? How did? It was so odd, but I ignored it in favor of allowing him to continue. I vaguely remembered this part from my birthday, but it was hazy.

"Ok I'm ready now." His head tilted and he put on this charming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hello John, I'm sorry I'm not there at the moment. I'm very busy. However, many happy returns."

I blinked a few times. Was that really what I needed? There on that pointless little DVD? Him just sitting there telling me he was sorry he left. It was nice in some ways. But the last part was what threw me.

"Oh and don't worry," I stared deep into those gorgeous stormy eyes. "I'm going to be with you again…very soon."

I looked around the room, suddenly feeling a bit spooked by it all. It felt like any moment people were going to jump out and laugh at me, like Sherlock himself would be roaring with laughter over what a good joke it all was, how funny I looked sitting there watching his film and thinking him dead. _I'll be with you again very soon_, rang through my head again and again.

I paused the video for a moment, not daring to watch onwards. Perhaps drinking hadn't been the best idea. After giving myself some time to gather myself again, I continued. All that was left was the cheeky end. His smile and wink that had brought smiles to me at my birthday and brought them back again, though this time with a few tears too.

It was right about that time Mary came through the door carrying groceries.

"Be a dear and help me?" she asked, face screwed up in exertion. I chuckled and rose to my feet, swooping in for a kiss to her cheek before helping her unload. As we headed to the kitchen she paused to glance at the telly, noticing what I was looking at.

"That's him, right?" she asked.

I nodded and set the bags down to go turn the blasted thing off. I hoped she didn't notice my eyes were a bit wet. But being Mary, she obviously did.

"Having a bit of a cry? It's all right, John. I know it's been hard."

"A bit," I admitted reluctantly, going back to help her with the rest of the things. She gave me a concerned stare as I put things in the ice box for her. I couldn't help but voice my thoughts.

"I was watching…and I told him all I'd wanted…well because it was a DVD for my birthday to apologize for not being there…and I told him I didn't want him to be dead. And then suddenly he said he'd be with me again very soon."

Mary smiled. "That'll give you the chills, hmm?"

I nodded, but I couldn't voice the rest. For a moment it was like he was there. I really could picture him laughing at me, thinking how funny it was I'd actually believed he was dead. But imaginings do me no good, really. So, I let the issue drop and started helping Mary make something for dinner.

* * *

I had finally begun to forget about him. I had started to move on with my life towards new horizons. And I embraced that reality as more time passed. At last, it came time for a final step towards ending my denials, towards recognizing the truth that I would never have him. And that was when I first decided to ask Mary to become a permanent part of my life.

Everything was perfect. I'd thought about it for months, bought the ring, reserved the table, made sure I had presentable clothes. Even grew my facial hair out a few months before in a thought of changing things up, making myself appear just a bit more masculine perhaps. I figured Mary would like that kind of thing. I put so much thought and care into it, I was convinced with all my effort there was no way I could cock up. It was going to be perfect.

I arrived early, started a look through the wine selection while extremely distracted. The waiter kept hovering around and didn't seem to give me much help at all when it came to choosing.

Mary came to the table looking absolutely lovely. She was beaming at me, eyes sparkling. I couldn't stop myself from thinking ahead, to years of happiness for the both of us. She was truly the most magnificent woman I'd ever met in my life.

I began my speech, stumbling over the words and botched the whole thing. But she was smiling all the while, not minding my clumsy attempts at asking her for her hand. Just as I was finally managing to put words to my feelings, however, was when the waiter bumbled back over blabbering about the wine.

"Suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend…" he said with gusto. Mary had dissolved into giggles as I groaned and decided to dispense of him so I could get on with my awkward important question asking.

"No look, seriously, could you—" I froze as I finally looked at his face. He'd randomly removed the spectacles he had on, and was staring at me with those eyes unhidden, that mysterious half smile in place. This had to be a dream. Sod it, this was a nightmare, and I would open my eyes soon and it would all be over. This was pre-proposal jitters, me as a nervous wreck imagining my imagined love Sherlock crashing the moment where I asked someone else to be with me for all eternity.

I rose to my feet, unable to remain seated, unable to sit there while this man stood in front of me with laughter in his expression, not understanding one bit all the pain and hurt and confusion he'd caused me for all those months the bloody bastard. He was going on about how funny it was and how he "wasn't dead." Obviously, Sherlock.

Mary caught on fast. She was always the smart one, but looking at him and then me, she realized who this had to be.

"Oh no…you're…" She stared at him in horror, glancing back at me with such obvious concern. "Oh my god."

I couldn't focus on anything. Sherlock would arrogantly state something about being alive. Mary kept saying these things that reminded me why I'd fallen in love with her.

"Oh my God, oh my God. Do you have _any_ idea what you've done to him?" she demanded to Sherlock at one point.

No. No, he doesn't Mary. He has no idea. Nor do you, really. You know I care for him. But you have no idea the agony I've suffered.

Whatever words I had managed to spit out were full of every bit of anger and frustration I felt. Asking him how he could do this to me, how he could allow me to grieve. I wanted to ask him how he'd managed to make me fall in love with his most selfish act. How had he done it.

And of course, being Sherlock, he had to turn it all into a joke.

"Are you really going to keep that?" he asked, motioning to the mustache I'd worked so hard on.

It was the last straw, the rage boiling inside hit a high point and I flung myself at him without a second thought.

The rest of the night was a blur. Sherlock trying to explain while I remained unable to keep my cool. I was so furious with him, I could barely process his words, and I didn't really care to. Whatever explanations he had were pointless. I didn't want elaborate plans and secrets of how he'd faked his death, I wanted to know why he couldn't be bothered to tell me he'd been gone, why he'd left _me_ his best and only true friend suffer the agony of two years thinking him gone for good when his homeless network and Molly Hooper and Mycroft all knew. And above all, I wanted to know why I had fallen for him when all he'd ever done was continue to hurt me with his carelessness, the self-centered sod.

All I really managed to determine was that he was as callous and thick as ever, pointing out that apparently Mary did not appreciate my facial hair, acting like it didn't even matter he hadn't bothered to tell me, still finding the whole situation funny even after being punched in the face on three separate occasions.

Mary took me home eventually. Sherlock still had a puzzled look on his face as she whispered something to him before we left.

In the cab she admitted she'd liked him. I smiled, but I couldn't help but sigh. Me too, Mary. If only you knew—

I sometimes forget how smart she is. I really admire that about her, but it does create problems in some situations. Namely, what happened when we arrived home.

I was washing up for bed, staring in the mirror and wondering if I really should shave the blasted thing off if it was clear nobody liked it but me. However, I decided to wait until morning to do so, figured I'd get some sleep and be feeling more together in the morning. I sighed and headed out of the washroom to find Mary sitting in bed. Normally she has a book she reads before we turn in, but that night I found her sitting up, just watching the door. She gave a half smile when I came out.

"Come here, I think we should have a chat." She patted the bed.

"What about?" I muttered. I came over and sat down on my side. She got up and moved so she could be a bit closer. I wrapped an arm around her.

"John," she said calmly. "I want to talk about what's going to happen next."

I sighed. "Well, if it weren't for bloody Sherlock and his poor sense of timing, I would have asked you this evening what you wanted next, but—we were interrupted at a crucial moment."

She smiled. "John, you know I'd gladly marry you. I love you dearly…however, I don't want to be…" she sighed. "I know things have changed now…and I don't want you to feel…stuck with me…"

My head shot up from where I'd been looking at the bedspread. "Mary, what are you—I'm not stuck with you! I love you, you know I do!"

Her finger found my lips, shushing me before I could say another word. "You know I believe that," her eyes searched mine. "However, that doesn't change the fact that up until today you believed Sherlock was dead. And that you were willing to marry me because he wasn't here."

"I don't know who you've been talking to, but Sherlock and I were not a couple. I'm not gay, Mary!"

"Obviously," she said, raising an eyebrow. "I would have left you ages ago if I'd thought so, John. You're far too interested in me to be solely into men. But that doesn't change what I've seen in your eyes over the years when you've talked about him, or visited his grave, or looked at his picture."

My mouth opened and closed a few times, but I had no words left.

"I've known since the day we first talked about it," Mary said, she gave me a look to indicate I shouldn't interrupt. "I knew you loved him, John. And I didn't care. But he's back, and whether you'll admit it or not, that does change things. And the last thing I'd ever want was to have you marry me with regrets."

I sat there for a moment, unmoving, unspeaking. She allowed me a good minute to collect my thoughts.

"Is this…an ultimatum? Am…are you leaving me?"

She smiled. "Ultimatum yes, leaving you…well that depends. I'm telling you I want you to consider things before you actually pop the question…and yes I expect you to do it properly. I know how important tonight was to you, and I don't mind you finding some other nice way to do it."

My jaw clenched as I looked away. Had I gained Sherlock back, only to lose her? Before I could choke up any further, Mary lifted my chin so I was staring at her once more.

"I love you, John Watson. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But only if you're sure you want the rest of your life with me…and not with Sherlock Holmes."

"He's not interested," I muttered. "Even…even if I am…he's not…"

She smiled. "Well, that's all fine and dandy, but have you actually asked him?"

I shrugged thinking back through our history together. "When we first met I asked if he had a boyfriend and he told me he was flattered but he was married to his work. I suppose that was before…everything…"

"Ask him," she said softly. "If he still declines you, then you can come back to me, pop the question. We'll be married in peace. But I can't sit here and have you wondering all the rest of your life if there ever would have been something more."

I sighed. "Trust Sherlock to screw up what was supposed to be perfect."

Mary leaned in so her head was resting on my shoulder. I squeezed her tighter. I'd been so lucky in finding Mary. Part of me wanted to tell her this wasn't necessary, that I loved her more than I did Sherlock Holmes. And yet another part of me was all too aware that wasn't the case. I would spend the rest of my life wondering if there ever could have been more. And Mary didn't deserve that. Maybe I didn't love her as much as Sherlock, but I did care for her enough to not let her have an unhappy marriage with me pining for someone else.

She fell asleep not too long after that. I laid awake long into the night, staring up at the ceiling and thinking over everything that had happened. Part of me was so afraid that if I closed my eyes, it would turn out to not be real. But at long last I became too knackered to keep my focus, and I drifted off in the early morning hours.

The next morning I shaved the blasted thing off. Mary was all too delighted, though she wouldn't stop pestering me if I would see Sherlock. Funny considering the sooner I did it, the sooner I might be leaving her. But that didn't seem to bother her in the least. Still, I wasn't sure if I was ready for another encounter so soon, so I headed to work and tried to make the time pass faster. I couldn't concentrate though. Even mistook one of my patients for Sherlock in disguise. So, in light of that I decided late that afternoon to head over to Baker Street again. Best get these things over with. Of course, just my luck, I would get kidnapped in the midst of all that.

I remembered very little of the whole thing, just being knocked out on my way to Baker street and then waking up buried beneath a pile of wood, screaming for help, smoke suddenly coming in. Heat was rising, the crackling flames nearing. The end of John Watson had come.

And then, someone was calling my name, and I heard movement not far off. I tried to cry out, but my air felt short, smoke already being pulled into my lungs. I felt my vision fading just as someone grabbed my arms and dragged me away from the fire, pulling me back out into the cool November air. I found myself on my back in the grass, staring up at the night sky. And then at him.

Sherlock was looming over me, patting my face, eyes wide as he gazed at me. Though I'd never had his abilities to read people, looking at him I could see all he is feeling in the moment. Panic. Fear. Worry. Relief. Each emotion passed over him and all I could think was that this had to be yet another nightmare.

As he called my name, I couldn't stop myself from leaning up and gently pressing my lips to his, only momentarily before I collapsed back to the ground, vision fading completely out as Mary appeared beside him as well. If he was reacting, I couldn't tell. I lost consciousness before anything else could happen.

* * *

I came to with paramedics checking me over. It didn't take long before they were satisfied, and Mary was helping me to a cab to head home. I asked her about Sherlock, and she made a face and said he'd headed off once he had word that I was going to be fine.

"You know, when I said to talk to him, I really did mean talk," she said. "With _words_. I swear, I thought he'd die of shock sitting there staring at you."

"Did he say anything?" I asked with a groan.

Mary shook her head. "Not a word. Didn't think a man like that could ever be so quiet, but you shut him up pretty thoroughly."

"Well, I'll make a married woman of you yet, Mary," I muttered.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh please, I wouldn't be surprised if he wants you. Under all that aloof and pompous attitude he probably is looking for your approval. I think that was what was really going on with him telling you his elaborate plans instead of apologizing yesterday. He just wanted you to be impressed."

I grunted. That did sound a bit like Sherlock. Showing off. But I couldn't believe something like my approval really would mean all that much to him. Impressing me had been so easy for him at first, as it was with most people. But I'd gradually grown used to it, and I'd stopped reacting.

"If I didn't know any better I'd say you want to get rid of me," I said as he we headed up the stairs.

Mary shot me a look. "You are very dear to me, John. I've been so happy with you. But—" She sighed. "I want you to be happy. You know that."

"What if I can be happy with you?" I asked.

"Get some sleep, John. You go have a chat with Sherlock tomorrow—actual talking included—and we'll sort it all out."

The next morning I did just that. Mary kissed me and wished me well, slipping something into my jacket pocket making me promise I'd only look at it if Sherlock consented. While her nonchalant attitude did strike me as odd, I appreciated it and I kissed her cheek with a promise that I'd love her no matter way…either as friend or wife it didn't mattered.

And so, I swallowed my pride and headed over to Baker Street, trying to rehearse in my head what I'd say if Sherlock reacted badly. _Oh it was just the shock… _or, _I thought you looked like Mary…_no…or _Well, I just was so relieved to be alive_. Hmm. No. And Sherlock would probably see through a lie.

I stepped up into the familiar place as Sherlock was seeing some people out. He raised an eyebrow as I stepped in, but didn't seem to protest. I went and sat in my old familiar chair, doing my best to avoid making eye contact.

"So you've shaved it off then."

I looked up at him, found him staring at me as I well remembered. But it felt like there was more heat in that gaze than I recalled before.

"Yeah, wasn't working for me," I muttered.

"I'm glad," he says, smiling in his usual way.

I swallowed, wondering why that comment seems so strange. I didn't know why it should matter to him if I have facial hair or not.

"What you didn't like it?" I said, though I tried to act casual.

Sherlock chuckled and shrugged. He made some comment and then seemed intent on moving towards discussing the terrorist cell he'd been working on cracking. However, I couldn't let him move on before we'd talked it over. It needed to happen.

"Sherlock," I said.

He turned to glance at me from where he'd been staring at this odd assortment of information he'd compiled onto a wall.

"Yes, John?"

I sighed and met his gaze. "About yesterday…"

"Oh?" his head tilted slightly.

"I…was relieved when I escaped from that fire…I might have…what I'm trying to say is…"

"Ah, no need to worry. I understand the shock likely put you into a confusing emotional state," he said. "Though Mary might want some kind of an explanation, I don't believe I require one."

"That's not—" I sighed. Of course he'd make this even harder. "The truth is I've been wanting to do that for a long time, Sherlock. And it is true, the heightened emotional state brought that out…but it didn't _cause_ it persay. More like made sure it actually happened. I've wanted to do that since the day I saw you jump…or…er…I realized I wanted to do it since then. I know it was wrong to do it that way but I…"

Sherlock blinked a few times. "There's nothing wrong with sexual desire, John. I understand some people have notions of homosexuality being morally wrong, but I don't see a problem in you feeling interested in another man."

I sighed and slapped hand to my forehead. "Sherlock, would you shut up? It's not about being gay or straight or this being right or wrong. This is about me realizing after that day you disappeared from my life that you were the only person I'd ever want. This is about me realizing I'm…I'm…" My voice choked with sudden emotion but I forced it out anyways. "Realizing I'm in love with you."

"Love," he said that word as though to taste it, rolling it around in his mouth as his eyebrows furrowed and his face screwed up. I suppose I wasn't surprised it was foreign to him, but still, I had to wait patiently as he worked through it. I could practically picture the cogs in his head turning, trying to process through every conceivable meaning for that word.

"Yes, love."

"It's a very imprecise word," Sherlock said. "Perhaps you can clarify your intentions in using it. Are you saying you…desire me? I initially was sure this was what you were describing, a tangible biological response where your body is giving you signals that you are interested in potential copulation. However—"

I sighed and rose to my feet to go over to him, putting a hand on his arm to stop further words from streaming out.

"I don't mean physically…well not solely. I mean…romantically. I love you, Sherlock. I want to be with you. I want to be yours I want you to be mine."

Sherlock frowned. "That word again. Love from the old English lufian meaning to cherish, to delight in, to approve of. Possibly from liubi meaning joy, or lof in old Friesian meaning praise, or perhaps even the Gothic liefs meaning dear or beloved."

"All of those things," I said with a sigh. "But I don't want a dictionary definition, Sherlock. I mean it as I say it. I love you. And I suppose I want to know if you feel the same."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and gazed down at me expectantly, eyes searching over me. "I don't understand what you mean, John. If you're indicating you missed me…then I agree, I feel the same."

I groaned and threw my head back. "It's not something I can explain to you, Sherlock. It's not precise science or clever deductions. And no I don't want just a quick shag or even a snog…although both of those would be nice… Love's an emotion. It's a feeling I get every time I look at you. It's the ache in my chest when I thought you were gone, the fluttering inside my stomach when I know you're here with me now. It's the way my throat closed up coming up these stairs and seeing this place again. It's right here and now, me standing here telling you I want you in every conceivable meaning of the word and that if you would have me Sherlock Holmes I would be yours."

I could see what Mary meant. Speechlessness didn't suit him. He stood there gaping at me, mouth wide, a look of utter surprise etched into his sharp features. I sighed and leaned closer to him, whispering it was all right, and I didn't expect him to return my feelings.

"I…"

"You told me a long time ago you were flattered but not interested," I said calmly. "I know…I asked you then if you had a boyfriend, merely out of curiosity, mind you. But…I've since come to realize I care for you and…if you have in any way changed your mind the offer is on the table. If not…well then…that's no matter. I don't blame you."

Sherlock cocked his head. "But what about, Mary?"

I sighed. "She won't have me until I'm sure you're not in my future. She said she couldn't marry me knowing I might wonder what would have happened if I'd told you. I love her…just not the same way I love you. I could be very happy with her. Probably happier than I'd ever be with you…but…that doesn't mean I can just deny what I'm feeling."

He was silent another long while. His eyes had wandered over to the windows and he was looking out, considering perhaps. I was only awaiting his polite decline. Or perhaps not so polite…there was no telling with him.

"I took Molly out on a case with me yesterday," he said quietly.

"Molly Hooper? Molly-the-girl-who-knew-you-were-alive Molly?"

He scowled and shrugged. "Yes, that Molly. Sorry _again_. Anyhow, I took her out on a case. And while it was…_nice_…there was only one person I could keep thinking about. There was only one voice that kept taunting me while I worked. I kept thinking of the one person who truly makes me ever feel humbled…has made me feel human…"

He paused momentarily and cleared his throat. "As a child I felt stupid next to Mycroft of course, but there is only one man who has ever made me feel that perhaps my sense of knowledge is not all there is to the world. Perhaps there is something more in humans, in emotions, in friendships, in…love." His eyes found me and he gave the slightest smile. "I couldn't stop thinking about you, John. No matter what I did. Poor Molly had to decline coming a second time I was so awful…kept calling her your name…kept wanting her to be more like you."

"Sherlock…"

He stepped closer, hand catching my face like it had always done in my dream. His fingers that looked so graceful holding a violin now cradled my cheek gently, brushing their calloused tips over my jawbone as he stared at me.

"I think in many ways I wanted you to miss me…because…I knew it meant I wasn't the only one…because it meant I truly had succeeded, John. I'd found someone who could care for me in spite of all my obnoxious qualities. I'd found someone who could put up with me as a roommate…who'd even go so far as to call me a friend. And…I didn't even realize it could go any further than that. I never imagined I'd find someone…" He broke off and I saw tears swimming in his eyes. "I didn't realize I could find someone who could _love_ me."

"Oh Sherlock." I leaned in and let my lips find his. If he was in any way hesitant he didn't show it. He allowed me to press a soft kiss there, wrap my arms around his back after a moment's pause and simply pressed myself closer to him.

He made a noise into my mouth and I finally withdrew, sighing as I looked up at him, wondering if this was the moment where he again rejected me, told me I wasn't quite what he was looking for or something like that. This was Sherlock after all. This was the man who solved hundreds of cases and could look at someone and figure out their life story. This man was brilliant and beautiful, strong and stoic, handsome and humorous. Could he ever even look at me and see an equal?

"Well," he murmured, managing a smile, "I think you're going to have to cancel those engagement plans. I really am surprised by your Mary. Here she's telling me she'll talk you round…I had no idea she meant to take it this far."

"Sherlock, so help me if you are joking I will take you back up to the roof of that bloody hospital and push you off myself you arrogant bleeding p—"

I was cut off by his mouth pushing insistently to mine, nose knocking briefly before he found a more comfortable angle. I didn't protest this time as his tongue snaked its way inside. While kissing another bloke was different, it didn't feel wrong. Especially when I knew who this was, that this was the man who had managed to somehow ensnare my affections after all this time.

Somehow I ended up on the couch with him on top of me, staring down at me, smiling.

"I won't lie, I have no idea what I'm doing," I muttered as he moved to kiss me again.

"Don't worry, I've studied the subject of male sex rather extensively," he deadpanned, smoothing a hand down my torso.

"Really?"

He pulled away minimally to stare down at me.

"Yes. Don't you trust me, John?"

I chuckled. "On knowing about something like, sex? Not really."

"I've researched the subject extensively. You have nothing to worry about."

"Well, I guess mind palaces do have their uses then," I muttered, moving my hands towards the buttons of his shirt. I had really not thought about going this far. But I wasn't opposed to the thought of a shag. Especially in the living room where we'd first met, on that old beloved couch. Adding a few new good memories to the flat couldn't hurt, after all. I thought briefly of Mary, but I was all too aware she probably already had some idea of how this was going considering I hadn't called her. She'd given her blessing after all. In fact…

I suddenly reached into my jacket pocket and retrieved what Mary had stuck there. Sure enough, I wasn't altogether surprised to see condoms. Well, with Sherlock being such an _expert_, I handed them to him. He chuckled and looked at me with a warm smile I couldn't help but feel a bit dizzy at receiving.

"Well, then. That's all the encouragement I need. If you're ready, John? Or would you prefer to keep telling me how much you _love_ me instead?"

"Oh get on with it you bastard," I muttered.

"Of course, my dear Watson," he said. "I'm glad to know you've missed me…"

"I have," I admitted, but I was unwilling to allow him to make any other smartarse remarks, so I pulled his mouth to mine and kept it there for a good long while. I called Mary about an hour later, apologized, and assured her that I would unfortunately have to call off our upcoming engagement. I'd found the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with… I stared down at him while I spoke, watching those familiar eyes glitter as he listened to my little farewell speech.

I'd asked him to stop being dead. That first miracle was all I'd really hoped for. I never expected a second in somehow managing to have him love me in return.

As we lay there, doing a bit of "pointless cuddling" as Sherlock called it, I decided one last thing had to be said.

"Please tell me this is the last fall you'll have for a bit."

He looked at me in confusion.

"I couldn't bear you dying again," I pointed out. "I would never be able to deal with it."

He made a soft shushing noise and kissed me again. "I have had my last fall. My last one I ever intend to have if things go as planned." He stared at me for a long moment. "Oh come, John, you don't see it? Why my last and greatest fall is this…falling for you."

I let out a laugh and leaned into him. I closed my eyes, and knew for the first time in months, if I had a kip there on the couch, Sherlock would be there when I woke up. This wasn't some dream to end after I woke, it was a present reality I grabbed hold of without a second though. And hopefully it would continue to be so for many years to come.


End file.
